


Bring Me Home

by Shrift (LFN_Archivist)



Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 21:46:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16689472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LFN_Archivist/pseuds/Shrift
Summary: This story was originally posted to the LFN Storyboard Archives by Shrift.





	Bring Me Home

Making sense of the darkness edging his vision, crawling back into consciousness, Michael could understand only one thing: he _hurt_. There was not a place on his body that failed to pulse with pain, and he automatically retreated back into his mind. His eyes fluttered closed and his ragged breathing evened. Michael wrapped himself in the confines of his soul and willed himself to _remember_. 

Images pummeled his inner eyes: Nikita, smiling; Nikita again, her face a rictus of fear; a building, rushing away; finally Adam, the last moment he had seen his son. 

He had fallen. Fallen far. No one had been able to do anything, and no one _had_ done anything to stop his fall. Not even Nikita. 

Michael grimaced inwardly. He had not expected her to forgive him this time, but he had hoped. Nikita had taught him that, how to hope again. He hoped that she would understand that he had no choice in the matter, hoped that she would realize what losing Adam had done to him. But while Michael had regained the capacity to hope, Nikita had lost her capacity to forgive him. 

Pain invaded Michael's haven and he gasped, brought fully awake. White, jagged pain lanced behind his eyes. He was lying in something warm and sticky. Michael vaguely registered that it was his own blood. A smile ghosted his face for a brief second. 

He was dying. 

Funny, Michael thought. I'm falling from hell into heaven. 

Michael's muscles relaxed at the thought of finally going home. Home. The word and thought lilted in his weary brain, comforting in its warmth. 

Of its own accord, a song Michael had heard not long ago began to insinuate itself into his consciousness: 

_Here is a song_  
_from the wrong side of town_  
_where I'm bound_  
_to the ground_  
_by the loneliest sound_  
_that pounds from within_  
_and is pinning me down_

Michael let the song play itself out, rather than quashing the errant thought. He was curious. He had been near death so many times, and all he had ever felt was emptiness and a hollow satisfaction. This was new, odd...this introspection... 

And he had nothing else to do but wait to die, pinned to the ground, in pain...listening to the erratic pounding of his heart. 

************ 

Michael's life began to flash before his eyes. His lips quirked involuntarily at how amusing he was finding the death process, how trite...how strangely _used to it_ he had become. 

_Here is a page_  
_from the emptiest stage_  
_a cage or the heaviest cross ever made_  
_a gauge of the deadliest trap ever laid_

Emptiness. His parents, sister, and Simone flashed by in rapid succession. Those demons he had finally dealt with, after years of struggle. The newer faces, Nikita, Elena, Adam...they tore at his soul, shredding the already ragged garment with which he had to clothe himself. He could feel Nikita's fingers covering his through the wiring of the cages, while they awaited more torture. Michael flayed himself with the memory of Section's war with Red Cell, and his subsequent manipulations of Nikita. Her hate-filled eyes glaring from her mauled face, glaring at _him_. 

Ah, Nikita. She was the "deadliest trap ever laid" by Madeline, by Section's mistress of cages and heavily-borne crosses. She had taken him down in the first moment, burrowing under his defenses expertly. In all her innocence, she barely knew what she had accomplished. She never knew that beneath his blank stare, he was raging inside with need. The need to touch, feel, taste. The need to _tell_ her anything she desired to hear. But more overpowering than all of these was the need to protect Nikita, from Section. From himself. 

Michael knew he was a dangerous man to know; it was dangerous to be his beloved. Simone had been lost that way, when Operations made the unilateral decision that Michael would be better off without her. Two wives gone, Michael recalled, and a son who would grow up fatherless. 

_The heat and the sickliest_  
_sweet smelling sheets_  
_that cling to the backs of my knees_  
_and my feet_  
_I'm drowning in time_  
_to a desperate beat_

Yes. There was a graveyard full of innocents, faces which haunted his dreams. That's why you don't sleep if your body will get by, a soft voice intoned. Michael almost didn't recognize his conscience. And Nikita, it whispered. What of her? 

Nikita's pain didn't need to be remembered. Everything he did to her lived fresh within him, a scab on his psyche that he wouldn't let heal. 

He felt a sigh escape his cold lips. 

If I asked Nikita, Michael thought, she would tell me that I didn't _deserve_ to heal. 

His conscience hissed a response. She would have been right. 

************ 

Michael could tell he was being moved, but his almost frightening ability to detach himself from his own body had kicked in with a vengeance. Michael assumed he was being taken to Medlab. It was doubtful that Section would allow anyone else to take his body. Really, it made no difference. He knew the distance he must have fallen. A faint chance at best that he would live; if he did survive the initial fall, he would be an invalid. Or catatonic. 

I wonder if Operations will cancel me himself, if that scenario unfolds, Michael thought. Perhaps Operations would make Nikita do the deed. Michael no longer knew Nikita, not like he had. Maybe she would quiet her demons by ending his life. Maybe not. 

Let it be _not_ , Michael's mind urged. 

_And I thank you_  
_for bringing me here_  
_for showing me home_  
_for singing these tears_  
_finally I've found_  
_that I belong here_

Nikita _had_ brought him here, fading from the land of the living, his consciousness slowly fraying into darkness. Michael had learned hope from her; what Nikita had gleaned from Michael only consisted of betrayal, secretiveness, and hatred. He had saved her life time and again by ruthlessly manipulating her emotions. Nikita had made a point, once; she had never asked for his protection. Michael didn't tell her...he couldn't _not_ protect her. Operations had told him, "If she fails, you fail." At that time, Michael had repeated another phrase in his mind: "If she dies, I die." The phrase had almost become a mantra for him. It was simple to behold, but too difficult for Michael to explain. Not when she didn't reciprocate. Not when Nikita jumped on his every word. She acted like a verbal barracuda when he spoke. Again, his fault. He gave her so little... 

Small wonder that she had pushed him, Michael chastised himself. 

************ 

_And I thank you_  
_for bringing me here_  
_for showing me home_  
_for singing these tears_  
_finally I've found_  
_that I belong here_

Nikita's loathing for him had metastasized. Before, she hadn't wanted anything to do with him, but she had cared. She was just avoiding being hurt. Her hatred had burrowed, like a malignant tumor, into her heart. 

Michael was thankful to whatever god or gods there were that Nikita had refused to extend her disgust to Adam. 

If that had happened, Michael thought, she would have just as well put a gun to my head and squeezed the trigger. 

His betrayal of Elena and subsequent assassination- 

No, Michael told himself. Not assassination. Not cancellation. Murder. 

He had murdered her father. Yes, her father had been a militant terrorist. Michael knew that was not a valid excuse; it hadn't been for a long time, not since that fateful day nearly fifteen years ago. 

You're the same, his conscience whispered. Just the same. 

Michael wondered idly how it had felt for him, to have his daughter Elena taken away forever. That would be the dividing line. If he had felt the same as Michael when Nikita carried Adam away in her arms, Michael knew he could never forgive himself. And he knew that he was fervently glad he would never be able to discover what Elena's father had experienced. Mentally and literally. His son would survive him, and that was as it should be. 

No, he had done enough. His son remained safe, away from him. 

Nikita was strong, stronger than he. Michael knew he wasn't essential to her survival. If he had been, she would not have stared at him callously, as he had flown backwards over the edge of the building. If she had just reached out her arm... 

Michael wished his lips could smile. Even now, he would not-could not-blame Nikita. 

She had shown him the way home. 

************ 

_And I thank you_  
_for bringing me here_  
_for showing me home_  
_for singing these tears_  
_finally I've found_  
_that I belong here._

Losing her, having her, and slowly killing her had brought Michael to this place: the place where he had no will to live. He had passively tried to kill himself twice in recent memory. The first had been when Nikita had chosen Jurgen over him, and Michael had used that choice to take away the hold Jurgen had over Section One. The way she looked at him after that had shattered his bones, and so he thought it best to end it in the flames. He would reset the detonator and die, mission complete. 

Jurgen had wrested that decision from him, choosing to die in his place. Michael still nursed a small spark of resentment from that. If Jurgen had not been so selfish, Michael could have caused so much less pain to others. Jurgen had denied him the cleansing inferno of hell. 

_God send the only true friend_  
_I call mine_  
_pretend that I'll make amends_  
_the next time_

Rene. Oh, God. Rene. 

Causing Rene's death had fractured something within him. Michael had been unable to draw a weapon against the man who had raised his little sister in his stead. He had been unable to defend himself _at all_ ; defending himself would have been an unconscionable act. Strange that Nikita had done it for him. 

The words he had spoken in the past had been flung back at him, by Rene and Nikita both. Michael had almost taken a vow of silence when Nikita advised him to "disengage." 

He hadn't been able to look at her face as he hovered over Rene's body, didn't want to see whatever emotion she displayed for him. He hadn't wanted to know, hadn't wanted _her_ to know the power she held over him. Michael never regretted telling her then that she, "should have let him do it." It remained a sparkling gem of truth in the quagmire of lies from which she couldn't free herself. 

But Nikita had stopped him twice. 

Michael's soul moaned. How could I have forgotten Simone's suicide? 

************ 

"We've more or less stabilized him," the young doctor ran his fingers through his hair. 

Madeline stood next to him only paces away from the observation window of Michael's room. "What's the prognosis?" 

The doctor slapped his hand against his thigh and sighed gustily. "Sh*t. I'm still trying to figure out why he's even _alive_. That fall..." 

Madeline simply stared at him with a benign half-smile. She didn't radiate an iota of concern, and it was obviously pissing the young man off. 

"Look. He's got a broken leg, cracked ribs, a concussion, and he's gonna be more bruised than a rotten banana...that's _if_ his internal injuries don't kill him first. Anybody but Michael would have been a pancake. He must have nine lives." 

"What about spinal injuries?" 

The doctor's lips twisted. "Why don't we wait and see if he wakes up before we worry about that?" 

"Keep me posted," she dismissed him and turned her gaze back to the observation window. The dark-haired doctor glared at her a moment, but walked away holding his silence. He gave Nikita a reassuring squeeze on the arm as he walked back into Michael's room. 

Nikita didn't even register him. She was huddled into herself with her forehead pressed against the glass. She hadn't changed from her mission leathers. Hadn't eaten or showered, much to Walter's dismay. He and Birkoff had teamed up to distract her, but nothing could wipe the stricken expression from her face. Shock had driven her mute and deaf. 

The scene kept playing out in her head, an instant replay that Nikita couldn't turn off, even had she wanted to do so. She was trying to remember the emotion that had brought her and Michael to this place. The emotion couldn't be recalled; Michael had sliced it out of her with one searing connection of their eyes as he fell. 

"You can go in now. The doctor says that it's alright." 

Nikita started at the soft touch of a hand on her shoulder. Her eyes darted at the speaker's face. It was one of the medical technicians. Normal people would probably call them nurses, Nikita thought. 

"You want me to go with you, sugar?" Walter asked, his fingers at her elbow. Nikita wouldn't look at him; she shook her head no. 

Nikita held her breath as she punched in her code at the door. She found that she still couldn't breathe as her feet carried her to Michael's prone, pale form. 

************ 

_And I thank you_  
_for bringing me here_  
_for showing me home_  
_for singing these tears_  
_finally I've found_  
_that I belong_  
_Feels like home_  
_I should have known_  
_from my first breath_

Her scent pulled his mind into fuzzy awareness; her presence brought him seeking out of his darkness, instinctively questing for her light and warmth. 

Michael took a shallow breath. 

She smells like home, he though muzzily, and cracked his eyelids. 

There, her face. Beautiful. 

He didn't see the strain, the blood. Didn't know that it was his blood on her, that they had forcefully wrenched her from his body, gasping from her sprint down from the roof. That they hadn't let her near him since. 

He felt a fevered breath escape him, parting his lips so that he could tell her. A speck of heat splashed onto his face, and he knew then that Nikita was crying. 

"Don't even _think_ about apologizing, Michael," she said, voice thick. Angry. She had mistaken what was in his eyes. "It's my turn." 

Her lips and eyes were forming an apology and Michael couldn't bear it. 

"Thank you," he whispered. Michael forced his throat to open, vocal cords to vibrate. But the words were so soft, and he needed her to hear. 

Her face froze into a perfect mask and she leaned closer. The soft fall of her hair caressed his cheek and Michael reveled in the touch. 

"Thank you." 

Her hair slid away from his cheek as she tilted her head. Michael willed her to look at him, into his eyes, as her head slowly turned. Nikita's eyes finally found their way to his, locking on and following him back inside his mind. 

************ 

Nikita felt her life skitter sideways as she locked eyes with Michael; the universe shifted out of harmony as his opaque ambiguity crystallized for a few precious seconds. 

She _knew_. 

Nikita knew what he was thanking her for; _knew_ , more certainly than she knew her own name, he was thanking her for letting him die. For killing him. For refusing to protect him like he protected her. 

Nikita couldn't get enough air. Her knees had locked, sparing her from an ungainly crash to the floor. The edges of her vision frayed with the awfulness of her realization. What she had done to Michael slapped her in the face as his eyelids fluttered shut. 

Up there on the roof, it had only been her and Michael. The secondary team had been covering the stairwell as Michael interrogated and canceled the mark. His name was Kellin. Keller. Something like that. She and Michael had been standing near the edge, and Keller's bodyguard was giving her a lascivious grin worthy of Perry Bauer. Nikita had been trying to discourage him with her imitation of Michael's coldest stare. When the goon had rushed Michael, she hadn't even drawn her weapon. She had been doing that, lately: not bothering to cover Michael. Not checking on him when he would be sent to Medlab. Her disgust with his actions had pushed him over the edge, more so than the bodyguard's angry shove. She had seen Michael lose his balance, noticed that he hadn't raised his gun. He took the man out easily by casting a crippling blow to his neck, all while falling backwards. Nikita knew she hadn't changed her cold expression by the look in Michael's eyes. 

Nikita _knew_ that was the reason Michael had never even attempted to regain his balance. 

Her breath rushed out of her in one sharp exhale. "What have I done?" she asked, voice pitted and craggy. Nikita found that she was clutching Michael's uninjured hand. "Why, Michael? Why'd you let me do this to you?" she whispered. Her fury at her own hideous behavior and Michael's - well, _Michael being Michael_ \- imploded behind her eyes. She wanted to pound her fists against his chest, to make him wake and say he'd be fine. 

Nikita's hot eyes leaked tears again. She took her hand away from Michael's to wipe at her blurred vision; the other hand was helping to keep her upright. 

The moment her hand left Michael's, all the monitors in the starkly white room erupted with anxious beeps and flashing red lights. Within minutes, Nikita was shoved by running doctors into the hall, where Birkoff and Madeline each clamped a hand on her upper arms. 

"Internal bleeding," Madeline told her calmly. "They've been expecting it." 

************ 

"They'll be taking him to surgery," Madeline continued a breath later. "Why don't you try to rest, Nikita?" 

"No." 

There was no rebellion in the statement, no childish tantrum in the lines of her body. Nikita was beyond that. There was nowhere for that immature girl to lurk; Michael had blasted every bit of her open. There was only Nikita standing there, head down and shoulders hunched. 

"I won't authorize you to receive updates on his condition, if you refuse to rest," Madeline countered, her brown eyes fixed on Nikita's face. "He'll be in surgery for a while." 

Nikita raised her head to gauge Madeline. Nikita dug through layers of masks and makeup to see a flinty spark of concern, barely there. It was enough for Nikita. Madeline could have her way. Nikita spared a small look for Birkoff, who stood dejectedly to one side. 

"Nikita," Madeline called as she reached the end of the hallway. Nikita craned her neck around to see Madeline with her hands clasped lightly in front of her. She waited patiently until Nikita turned to face her. 

"I'll let you know when he comes out of surgery. Perhaps your presence will increase the odds, give him the will to live." 

Nikita nodded sharply and left without contemplating what game Madeline was playing. It didn't matter. 

"I've gotta go," Birkoff said in his soft tenor. A moment later, Operations joined Madeline at the observation window. 

"Where's Michael?" he asked. From his tone, it seemed like he was accusing Madeline of misplacing his favorite toy. 

Madeline sniffed and met Operations' eyes. "He's not doing well." Her voice carried an accusation also, dissimilar in intent. 

"George is breathing down my neck," he snapped. Madeline smiled faintly. George had always been fond of Michael, if only for the possibility that he could some day use the young man to wrest Section One from its current leader. 

"He is?" Madeline inquired politely. 

"I don't think you understand, Madeline. Losing Michael could be the last straw." Operations pulled his hands from his pockets and straightened his shoulders reflexively. 

"I don't care what you have to do. I want him _alive_." 

************ 

_And I thank you_  
_for bringing me here_  
_for showing me home_  
_for singing these tears_  
_finally I've found_  
_that I belong here._

Michael took note of the faint disturbance in the air as someone entered his room. He took note of the subtle scent and the cadence of step. 

Madeline. The only person Michael could recognize more readily was Nikita. 

He felt her approach the bed, mentally saw her clasping her hands and tilting her head. Always observant, ever evaluating. 

"I can tell by your respiration patterns that you're conscious, Michael," she informed him dryly. 

Michael allowed his lips to twitch and decided to enjoy himself. This could be his last battle of wits with Madeline. Neither would admit just how much they savored those tests of will. He opened his eyes. 

Her dense brown eyes stared into liquid ice. Madeline blinked at him, a tactic she resorted to when he did something to disturb her. 

"She can't handle it, Michael. If you don't survive, it will break her." 

Speaking was painful and he pitched his voice low; Michael's answer nevertheless filled the room with his presence. "No." 

Madeline immediately switched tactics. "You're willing to die for her, Michael. That's a very noble notion. But are you willing to _live_ for her?" 

Fifteen years of paranoia, brutality, and emotional devastation kept Michael's features rigid and held the flicker of surprise from his ice-green eyes. Michael lay dying, and thanked his body for not betraying him one last time. Finally, Michael's exterior armor was impervious. God, how he wanted to win... 

"Thank you, Madeline," he whispered. 

Madeline's lips parted in shock and confusion. She blinked at him. The connection was not there as with Nikita, and Madeline was only partially aware of what he meant. Even a partial awareness had rendered her mute. 

For the first time in his life, Michael had succeeded in breaking Madeline's composure. He tried to enjoy it, but he was rapidly tiring. The darkness beckoned, and he had only to close his eyes... 

************ 

_And I thank you_  
_for bringing me here_  
_for showing me home_  
_for singing these tears_  
_finally I've found_  
_that I belong here._

Michael sensed it the moment Madeline's presence exchanged with Nikita's. He toyed briefly with the idea of staying conscious for her, but Michael knew that his store of energy was nearly tapped out. 

Would he live for her? 

He needed to confront that burning question first. Madeline had ignited the words, which flickered through him. The words pumped with his blood, whispered in his ears, dripped from his fingers... 

The words consumed him; Michael was held in thrall with Madeline's last, best cage. 

Unwilling, Michael slid into darkness, to decide. 

Not warm. Not cold. Rather, an absence of sensation. The darkness muted his eyes. 

That is, if I have eyes, Michael pondered. 

He walked blindly forward. There was no movement, no source of light. Only Michael. 

They lied, he thought. There is no light, no tunnel. No one holding out a hand... 

But who would hold out a hand for Michael? Nikita hadn't. Simone had refused his hand so many years before. His parents, then? 

No, I don't want them here. I don't want them to know what I've become, Michael thought. If there is a heaven, that's where they will be. Far away from _me_. 

Michael wandered aimlessly through the non-corporeal, gray-tinged landscape. Nothing beckoned him. No one urged him. Even the haunting song had abandoned him, leaving Michael alone. Completely, stiflingly _alone_. 

The question flashed out of the darkness. Would he live for her? 

Michael halted his attempts to move as Angie's voice came to him, unbidden. Her sad face, thin-lipped, saying, "When you go, life will go with you." Her ghost resurrected for a blistering instant. 

And Michael _had_ taken life with him, her life. Angie hadn't meant it that way; Michael was warping her words. 

I'll have to remember to apologize, Michael thought. 

But it was true. Wherever he went, life went with him. Death traveled in his wake, preceded him, surrounded him. Michael lived within a killing cyclone, forever apologizing in the eye. If he were gone, what would happen? Who would take his place? Would he be worse than Michael? 

A dry laugh echoed through the black expanse. Who could be worse? Life might flourish in the absence of his shadows. What would happen if he stayed? Only more of the same. 

Would he live for her? 

************ 

_Pretend that I'll make amends_  
_the next time_  
_befriend the glorious end of the line._

Would he live for her? 

The darkness faded, replaced with the sterile light of Medlab. Madeline's hold melted away. Michael had decided the question long ago, had been deciding since the moment he first saw Nikita's face. 

Found he was gasping for breath. Found Nikita's hand stroking through his hair. Found everything too bright, too cold, too _alive_... 

Michael wanted to go home. 

For once, Michael was going to get what he wanted. Operations could not stop him. Madeline had been thwarted...but where was home? 

_Nikita, please_... 

"Michael?" 

He hadn't known he had spoken the plea. 

"Stay with me, Michael." 

Would he live for her? 

He saw her, hovering over him. Her eyes red-rimmed, mouth twisted in an attempt to hold in a sob. She still knew, their connection had not faded. Nikita knew he was deciding. 

She was desperate, guilty, torn. Blame distorted her features. Her eyes told him that she wished him peace, but if he took it, he would be taking it from her. Nikita would never know peace again. She would become _him_. 

Her lower lip trembled and she indelicately cleared her throat of phlegm. 

_Ah, his Nikita_... 

"I need to know, Michael. Do you love me?" 

The silence in the room was deafening, crescendoing until his painful gasp split the air. 

Would he live for her? 

"Yes." 

_God, yes_.


End file.
